There’s a lot to say about seven months of baby. There’s a paragraph on how tired I am. And a chapter or so on how life has changed since June. But there are books upon books about how awesome she is at this second. Guys, she is that awesome.

We heard so many things when D was pregnant, like “enjoy the second trimester!” that were sort of true but weren’t overwhelmingly compelling (for us, and for me in particular, since I was totally out of the whole carrying a human loop). I’ve tuned out generalizations like that, preferring to wait and see what happens to us. One of those generalizations, “You’ll love seven months! Seven months is so much fun!” has turned out to be 100% true.

She is. She is so much fun. She laughs (sort of, if you can call “squished velociraptor” a laugh). She bounces back from falling over or banging her head in an instant, pout shelved for later use. She loves every stereotypical baby thing ever. Pattycake. Playing giddy-up. Getting tossed in the air. Being an airplane. Blowing raspberries. Grabbing her feet. She is killing me with her cuteness.

I sometimes catch myself wondering what her next big milestone will be. Standing? Crawling? Syllables that don’t begin with doidoidoi? Will she eat something with her fingers first? Or grow a tooth? It’s exciting to think that all those things are coming in a minute but that, in the meantime, we’re in a charming intermission of babyhood. A laughing, gurgling, playful, happy, joyful, intermission.

What makes it all that much better? She finally rolled over. Just once, from her back to her front, but that’s all I needed to see ever. I absolutely love seven months.